For Forever
by Beguile
Summary: The dust is still settling from Midland Circle when Frank returns to the city. Sequel to It Takes a Village. Season 3 AU.
1. Prologue

Disclaimer: the characters and concepts in this story are the property of Marvel and their related affiliates. This is an amateur writing effort meant for entertainment purposes only.

Summary: The dust is still settling from Midland Circle when Frank returns to the city.

Sequel to It Takes a Village. Season 3 AU.

Author's Notes: I wasn't planning on this. I had ideas. A file titled "Every Time Frank Could Have Shown Up In Season 3." Conversations with friends. But I wasn't going to put this into words until Tumblr decided to show me a mash-up of gifs depicting Frank saving Matt.

And then it just sort of…clicked. Well, no, it didn't. There were two versions of this story in the works for a while before dear friends helped clarify which version was going to get posted. I spent an additional forty-eight hours agonizing over my decision. But ultimately, posting this felt like the right thing to do.

And then, 17 chapters later, someone asked why this wasn't posted on ff dot net, and I remembered that I had an account there too.

FF dot net Readers, my apologies: I got into the habit of posting elsewhere due to the content of my fics, and I completely blanked on sharing this here. Good news is that there are 17 chapters of this fic! And they will be making their way onto this site slowly but surely as I edit them! Bad news is that eventually it will be a WIP again, so there may be delays between updates. I appreciate your patience in advance.

If you haven't read _It Takes a Village_, here are the major plot points:

\- Matt breaks his leg saving Frank from a collapsing ceiling. Frank repays him by taking him home and nursing him back to health.

\- Matt and Frank fight during this time. A lot. But then they gain a respect (and deep, irrevocable affection) for each other.

\- Elektra shows up. She works for the Hand. She and Frank fight over Matt.

\- Fight scenes.

\- Elektra breaks from the Hand and leaves to kill their remaining members in part to save Matt from being arrested.

\- Frank lets himself be arrested at the end to save Matt from also being arrested.

\- Matt rebuilds his friendships with Karen and Foggy, particularly Foggy.

There is more, but I feel like that's a good primer for the uninitiated. And if all you're looking for is shameless Matt-whump, well, have no fear! Because you'll definitely find that.

One last note: in the show, Matt requests Clinton Church, but I called the church St. Matthew's in _Village_, so it's called St. Matthew's here for continuity.

Enjoy.

* * *

For Forever

Prologue

The news reaches Frank: Midland Circle collapsed, ninjas suspected, the Devil of Hell's Kitchen presumed dead. "Haven't found a body," CO Booth whispers through the bars, "But they're pretty sure he isn't walking out from under a collapsed building."

Frank's not, but he keeps that to himself. Matter of time, he tells himself. Like everything about Red, it was only a matter of time. And knowing Red, it's only a matter of time before he shows back up. Doesn't stop Frank's head from getting quiet though. He listens to Booth's footsteps retreat down the hall, then he closes himself off to everything in the cell block, thoughts fixing on what he's going to do when the doors open.

Cell block opens. COs eye him, but Frank's been good these past couple months. Made deaths look accidental. Avoided fights where guards can see. Played the upstanding inmate so well they don't mobilize when he joins Wilson Fisk in the weight room. There are a few inmates hovering, obviously loyal. Frank plays it cool. He feigns heading to a bench, even has one guy come up prepared to spot, then in one swift movement, Frank weaves back, grabs a weight, and smashes it into Fisk's knee. The Fat Man goes down. Frank swings again, cracking Fisk's hip, shoulder, and chest before a combination of inmates and COs put him on the ground.

He comes to in the infirmary. He counts a couple of busted ribs, two broken fingers, and a sprained wrist through concussion fog. CO Booth is at the door; CO Watson flanks him, panties in a bunch because he wants Frank in the hole ASAP. Doc mutters something about how they probably should've posted extra guards around the one guy in gen pop they know for sure Frank wants to kill.

Watson makes some other asshole comment that Frank ignores. He's busy blinking the gray out of his vision, trying to confirm Fisk's location. Couple of COs are hovering in his periphery. Medics circle a bed, the hulking body of the Kingpin just visible within their cluster. Blood and bruises stand out amidst the white coats.

"He's not going anywhere," Doc says. He holds up Frank's injured hand, pressing a tablet into Frank's palm as he works, a tablet he bandages into place while tending to Frank's wrist.

"Thanks, Doc," Frank mutters.

Watson arranges another beating for Frank when he gets to the hole, enough for him to spend the first hour in solitary on the floor, dazed, soaking in a pool of his own blood. He gives his head time to clear, lets the darkness sharpen before his eyes. He's beaten and bloody and concussed, but his thinking is the clearest it's been in months. The path is so clear, so perfectly clear.

He reaches his injured hand to his mouth, scraping under the bandage with his tongue. He swallows the pill left by the Doc with a chaser of blood from his busted lips and nose.

Doc doesn't like him, but the Doc doesn't like Fisk more. They've had a deal in place since Frank arrived, a ready-made escape route that starts with the breaking of Wilson Fisk and ends with the death of Frank Castle.

He tries to prepare himself, but nothing prepares him for the shock of paralysis. The cold rush through his blood. The last remaining heartbeats before his brain goes as dark as his cell.

* * *

Frank wakes up in the body bag mid-transport. Lies still till they stop, lets himself be unloaded, but the second the doors slam behind them, he busts out of the bag. He takes out the two orderlies rolling him to the oven, treats the other employees to sleeper holds, and only when he's rendered everyone unconscious does the full weight of what he's done hit him. His muscles give out. He drops to his knees. His blood gets sluggish and oozy in his veins, tugging like a blanket through his skull. Adrenaline doesn't do shit except push him toward cardiac arrest. Doc said he needed to take it easy, but Frank doesn't have time to take it easy. He's got minutes before the guys on the floor start waking up. A few minutes after that before they get every cop down here, throw his ass straight back in solitary. The Devil and him both underground.

He gets to his feet, and his next few steps nearly put him back on the floor, but he manages to get himself to the breakroom. Bunch of lockers on the back wall: Frank busts into them, grabs himself some clean clothes and a set of car keys, then he strips, staggers, and redresses so that by the time he's out the back, he's looking halfway respectable. Certainly well enough that no one's going to stop him on the drive through the city.

Hell's Kitchen can't come fast enough. Frank pulls over, parks illegally. Ditches the keys in the passenger seat, and hops the hell out, double-timing it down the alley. He orients himself – no easy feat. Shit, his head's spinning. His hands are shaking. His heart's bashing against his rib cage. Takes everything Frank has left to get his ass off the street. Once he does find some place to hide, he drops into a corner and lets his eyes shut, the details of the plan coming together even as the grasp on his senses falls away.

He doesn't dream. Head's a dark place, oddly silent. Got his crosshairs fixed and nothing gets in the way. When he wakes, Frank tends to his injuries out of necessity. He steals some better clothes and takes a walk.

Air's thick around the site; Frank's sinuses burn. He tries to catch a glimpse of the sorry excuse for rescue teams that ain't gonna find a damn thing but eventually gives up. He heads to the library, temples pounding, sinuses on fire. The archives let him crash-course city planning. Sewers run through every fucking inch of the city. Underground tunnels that'll be flushing shit out of the system. Frank grabs a cup of coffee on the way to the Hudson where he spends the afternoon checking sewage, waiting for the devil to show up.

The sight of the empty beach disappoints him. No search crews, no Red, no nothing. Frank walks around well into nighttime, scanning his flashlight over the rocks and the litter, watching animals churn and shift past the light. Waiting for Red to show up the way Red always does: out of nowhere with some bullshit quip, trouble nipping at his heels.

God damn it, where is he? They're almost on day three with no sign of the Devil, and there's no way the kid is going to pass up the chance to be a Christ metaphor.

Pain lances through Frank's head so suddenly his knees almost give out. He reaches for his face and knocks his busted nose and _fuck_, why's he doing this? Why is he fucking doing this? Busting out of prison and wandering around in the dark. Not bothering with reason or rationale even though it's stupid as hell, pulling through debris and sniffing sewer water and scouring garbage. Devil's dead. Or he's not dead: he's pulled himself out already and plunked himself on a nearby rooftop to get a good view of the show Frank's making in his honour. Little shit.

Frank stops, drops to his haunches, counts to ten. The pain in his head gives way to pain in his chest. His blood still running like sludge. His heart's working overtime. Stomach's a mess, too. One more pass, he decides. One more and then he'll call it a night, come back in the morning with fresh eyes.

Water rushes through the drainpipes ahead of him. Debris scatters on the beach. Frank listens to the slick, wet slap of runoff against the sand. He trails his flashlight along, one pipe after another, almost missing the sudden flash of red in the beam.

He reaches for the sidearm he doesn't have even as his feet carry him forward, his body knowing faster than his brain what he's going to find. Past the next drain, Red's dragging himself across the sand, the only sounds he's making a series of weak groans.

Frank shuts off his flashlight. He rushes forward, taking the kid by the shoulders. Rolling Red's a bad idea: he's not moving properly, the kid. Legs are stiff and arms are folded up to his chest. Need to check him over before picking him up.

Red's not much of a conversationalist. He drops back into the sand, his eyes still open, his jaw unhinged, the glazed look of a corpse written over his face. His skin's blue under the moonlight, mottled with blood and bruising. Frank cups a hand in front of his mouth, relieved to feel a breath against the backs of his fingers. He gives Red a quick pat-down, committing the swelling in the lower back and hip to memory. Then Frank grabs Red by the shoulder and goes to lift him.

The kid snaps awake in his hands. "Red," Frank says, waiting for a reaction that never comes. Red's moving but not stirring. Just hangs there in Frank's hands, every inch of him sinking into the ground.

Frank holds tight. "Stay with me, Red. Come on." He adjusts his grip, lifting Red up, putting him on his knees in the sand and hoping that doesn't strain the back injury too much. Still, Red does nothing. He weathers the movement like a puppet on Frank's strings, his eyes fixed skyward. Mouth agape.

Claps to the face do nothing; Frank's playing with a corpse. "No, no, not yet, Red, you hear me? Not your time yet. Not yet."

The kid blinks in response. Best he can do, it seems, under the circumstances. Moves not a muscle aside for that. Frank's hushed litany earns that slow drop of Red's eyelids, then he's back to staring in the empty shell of the Devil's mutilated body. Only thing left of the kid is his body, and he doesn't seem to be even aware of that.

His chapped lips twitch. Frank leans closer, his heart in his throat from the thought this might be it. Red's about to draw his last breath. Instead, what Frank hears is, "Sain-" The kid sinks out of himself for a second, and Frank's heart skips a beat, but then he's back again, "Saint Matthew's. Father Lantom."

Red's eyes shut after that. Job done.

Frank doesn't waste any more time. He wrestles the Devil over one shoulder, ignoring the protests from his own chest for how Red doesn't make a sound: not a moan or a groan or a sigh, nothing. He flops lifelessly against Frank's back on the way off the beach. He drops into he backseat of the car Frank busts into, dead weight, nothing but an empty shell of the Devil of Hell's Kitchen.

Frank gets into the driver's seat. He hotwires the car and has it in drive before his brain catches up to him, asks what the hell is going on. Jesus, he doesn't know. The noise is back inside his skull – gunfire and explosions and buildings coming down. Invasion of New York level shit. Red's barely breathing back there. Should be in a hospital. Could be in the morgue.

He slams a hand against the wheel, knocking himself out of his fugue. "You asking for last rites, Red? That what you want?"

No answer. Frank tears his gaze out of the rear-view mirror for the road, pulling his foot off the brake as he does. "This isn't the end." And he says it again, 'cuz he means it. "This isn't the end. You stay with me, ya hear?"

But he drives the kid to St. Matthew's anyways.

* * *

Happy reading!


	2. Church

Disclaimer: the characters and concepts in this story are the property of Marvel and their related affiliates. This is an amateur writing effort meant for entertainment purposes only.

Summary: The dust is still settling from Midland Circle when Frank returns to the city.

Sequel to iIt Takes a Village/i. AU.

Author's Notes: The response to the first chapter of this fic was overwhelming. Thank you. I have been so excited these past couple of days. I have missed writing this kind of relationship between them.

Readers, dear Readers, please, enjoy.

* * *

""Oh, the things that you do in the name of what you love.  
You were doomed but just enough."

~Fall Out Boy, "Church"

* * *

Chapter One

Frank slams a fist on the rectory door. Father answers quick enough. Look on his face goes from angry to horrified back to angry.

"Matt Murdock," is all Frank says to get that expression back to horrified.

Lantom grabs a coat and pair of shoes before following Frank to the car. He's silent as Frank opens the back door, and he stays that way as Red's bashed-up face comes into view on the backseat.

"He was asking for you," Frank says, stepping out of the way. The old man gets in close, tucking a hand under Red's jaw to check for a pulse. "Think he wants last rites."

"Do you think he needs them?"

Frank doesn't like that question. "I don't think he can give 'em even if he did."

Lantom withdraws his hand. He reaches for the door, waiting for Frank to step out of the way before closing it. The blood on his palms stands out, even in the dark, but Lantom doesn't bother wiping it off. Old man's used to getting his hands dirty. "Other side of the church there's an orphanage, St. Agnes. Park in the back. I'll let you in, help you get him upstairs."

"What's upstairs?" Frank asks, already headed for the driver's seat.

"Infirmary." Lantom closes the car door gently over Red's head. "We'll see to him there."

Reason asserts itself dimly from the recesses of Frank's mind. He might be running through the motions, but he isn't an idiot. "Gonna need a lot more than an orphanage infirmary."

The old man doesn't shrug, doesn't smirk, doesn't do a damn thing but level a stare that bores into Frank. "Guess it's a good thing you're here." And then, as Frank's ducking in the car to get the hell away, "Again."

Frank slams his door as hard as he can. Lantom gets the door closed behind. He gets the engine running, even shifts into drive, puts the car in motion, his thoughts in a void. He's got his marching orders, so he's marching, but that doesn't quite seem good enough with the Devil of Hell's Kitchen kicking up a silent fuss in the backseat and the old Priest saying smartass shit. What the hell does he need a reason to do what he does? Made himself perfectly fucking clear the last time he and the kid were together as to the why-s and how-s between them.

Father's waiting at an open door when Frank gets the car around. He gets to the back of the car and already has a hand under Red's shoulder before Frank's out of the driver's seat. Together, they get the kid out of the car and flopped back over Frank's shoulder.

Lantom leads the way through St. Agnes, guiding them by a flashlight beam and muscle memory up two sets of stairs and a long hallway of closed doors. They eventually arrive in a small room of three beds dimly lit from the streetlamps below. The sight gives Frank zero pause. He puts the kid on the middle bed, his knees buckling slightly as he rises back to standing from the sudden absence of weight on his shoulder.

"Watch your eyes," Lantom warns before the lights come on. Frank forces himself to stare through it, but his eyes are on fire. His skull throbs. Pain blots out his senses, and when he reaches for it, he hits his God damn broken nose again.

"Shit," Frank says, the backs of his knees clattering against the bed behind him.

"Language," Lantom reminds him.

"Yeah, yeah." The room gradually comes back into focus, just in time for Frank to notice a black-clad figure storming up the hall. She rounds the corner into the infirmary, so pissed the brightness of the room doesn't faze her. Nothing does. The sight of Red only serves to piss her off more.

"What's going on here?"

She's not really asking. Her tone makes that abundantly clear. But Lantom runs with it, replying, "We have an injured man."

"You have two," the woman notes, giving Frank a scathing once-over. "Why?"

Father tries to get a handle on the conversation, but the woman's focus has already shifted. "Who are you?" she demands.

Frank ignores her for Red. Kid's face looks worse in the light, bloodier. More distended, more broken. Even his precious suit's coming apart at the seams. He hangs from Frank's hands when lifted upright, his head heavy against Frank's neck.

"He's here to –"

"Stop."

Frank assumes she's talking to Lantom until he's got her at the bedside, looming over him in her black dressing gown. He doesn't stop, instead side-eyeing her as he tugs at the zipper on the Devil's stupid costume. The suit is pulled tight across Red's crushed body, swelling pulling against the fabric.

"Daredevil's one of ours, Maggie," Lantom says, joining them.

"He should be in a hospital."

"He's a vigilante. If he goes to a hospital, the police will arrest him."

Maggie walks away from the bed. Thank Christ. Frank manages to get the zipper popped, but he hasn't done much to loose Red from inside it before he notices Maggie's grabs the phone from its cradle on the wall.

It's the only sight strong enough to get Frank to put the kid back on the bed. He comes around, sidesteps the priest, puts himself on a collision course with Maggie. "Can't let you do that," he says.

Maggie stands her ground, putting the phone to her ear. She glares daggers at Frank the whole time he comes towards her. "This is Sister Maggie Grace at St. Agnes Orphanage-"

Frank isn't sure what he's about to do, only that he's about to do it, right up until Lantom puts a hand on his chest and says, "It's Matthew. Jack Murdock's son."

Well, hell, if that doesn't change her tune. Maggie's still pissed off, sure, but she tells the dispatcher on the other line that she's made a mistake and hangs up. The phone goes back to the cradle. Frank stands down, returning to the bedside, to the kid. So swelled up it'll be a miracle if they get him out of the suit. Scissors won't do it; scalpel won't work neither. "Need some wire cutters. Bolt cutters, if you got 'em," he says.

"Paul," Maggie says. Lantom heads for the door. "Wake Sister Elizabeth on your way. Have her do a bed check, make sure no one's heard you arrive."

Father's departure seems to put the whole room in motion. Frank sways on his feet to compensate, only to realize it's not the room, it's him. His throbbing head and wrist and fingers. He stiffens his legs to hold himself upright, raising his eyes to Maggie just in case she wants to make some kind of smart comment.

She doesn't. She waits just long enough to see that he's righted himself before leaving the room. Frank takes advantage of her absence to wipe the sweat out of his eyes, to slow down his breathing, get his heart from trying to leap out of his chest. The sight of Red sobers him up quick. Kid's right eye is swollen shut, but the left one is open a crack, the pupil fixed.

Frank puts a finger to Red's wrist, takes his pulse one more time to be sure. "You hang in there, Red, come on," he mutters. "This isn't the end."

Maggie comes back into the room; Frank drops the kid's wrist, rising back to his full height just in time for her to pass him a bowl of water and a hand towel. "Get yourself cleaned up," she says, putting another bowl on the small table by the head of the kid's bed. "He's got enough problems without picking up something from you."

Frank nods – less in thanks than in acknowledgement of her advice – and lowers himself onto the bed behind him. Change in altitude does him good. The warm water on his face helps clear up that dizziness some.

"So are you like him?" Maggie asks. She's got a rag hovering by Red's face, trying to find a place it's safe to touch him. Eventually she settles on the left side, by his cheek, and gently washes away at the blood and grime tracking over his skin. The motion pushes Red's one eye shut.

Pressure mounts inside Frank's chest. He tries to think of an answer for Maggie's question to distract himself, but it's hard when Red's face is caving to the slight pressure of the cloth. When he's lying there, ready for the grave in that stupid armour of his.

She tries again: "Not much of a costume you're wearing, if you are."

"I don't wear a costume," Frank says.

"That'd be a first." She brushes the cloth over Red's chin, trying to loose the blood from his facial hair. "Do you have a name?"

"Less you know the better," Frank says.

Maggie lets out a laugh. "I agree. But you're here now. What do I call you? Bloody Man? The Devil's Sidekick?"

"Look, lady-"

"Sister." Maggie's glare is delivered by implication only. "You come to my door in the middle of the night. Take refuge in my infirmary." She doesn't stop what she's doing. But hell, her voice softens, and that serves to make her sound more dangerous. "I don't expect you're going to leave when Father returns with the wire and bolt cutters. So what am I supposed to call you?"

She brings the rag back to the bowl of water and wrings it out. Frank doesn't meet her stare on purpose. He fixes his gaze on the floor, a big stain of red and black in his periphery from the kid and Mother-freaking-Superior watching over him.

"Call me Frank," he says.

"Frank."

"Yeah." He catches her, head tilting back, eyes pointing skyward, a prayer for strength. Not sure if that means she knows him or she thinks he's lying. "I'm not here for trouble. Kid said he wanted the church, I brought him to the church. Father's the one that told me to come here."

"Listening to a dying man and a Priest…" Maggie trails off.

"You listened too," Frank reminds her. "Jack Murdock's son."

Maggie hardens at that. "Yeah, well," she turns all her attention back to Matt. Frank's content to leave her there, but she comes back with, "How did you find him?"

"I looked."

"Must have been one hell of a search."

"Yeah, well." Frank reaches for his scalp but thinks better of scrubbing at it. There's a cut there from his final beatings at Super Max.

"Matthew must be very important to you."

Frank wrings out his own cloth, tosses it into the bowl. The water's getting close to the same colour as Red's suit. "Should be more important to Search and Rescue. Got whole teams of guys digging up Midtown but all it took was one asshole on a beach with a flashlight to find him."

There's the ghost of an expression on her face: a smirk, probably. Little flash of victory that goes as quickly as it comes. Maggie swipes the cloth through Red's hair, searching for wounds as she works. Frank lets her, his eyes drawn instead to that damn armour.

"Did you find the woman?"

A chill runs through Frank; he shakes it off, coming back to himself. "What woman?"

"The woman he was with: reports said that two people were confirmed to have been at the bottom of Midland Circle. The Devil of Hell's Kitchen and a woman."

Frank tries to remember the prison, what Booth said to him. Ninjas and the Devil of Hell's Kitchen. But shit, that was early reports, and it was enough to kick Frank's ass into gear. He thought he knew everything he needed to know, thought that Red getting crushed by another building was inevitable, and it fucking is, but of course there's a woman. Hell, with the ninjas involved, with _Red_, there's only one woman it could be.

"No," Frank replies just as Lantom re-enters the room, "But I intend to."

* * *

Happy reading!


	3. Orpheus

Disclaimer: the characters and concepts in this story are the property of Marvel and their related affiliates. This is an amateur writing effort meant for entertainment purposes only.

Summary: The dust is still settling from Midland Circle when Frank returns to the city.

Sequel to It Takes a Village. AU.

Author's Notes: Readers, dear Readers, I hope you're enjoying yourselves. Thank you so much for the support. Cheers!

* * *

"Don't stop trying to find me here amidst the chaos  
Though I know it's blinding, there's a way out  
…No fear, don't you turn like Orpheus, just stay here  
Hold me in the dark"

~Sara Bareilles, "Orpheus"

* * *

Chapter Two

Bolt cutters give Frank's hands something to do besides punching the walls. Fucking costume doesn't stand a chance. It's Midland Circle. It's the God damn city. It's Wilson Fisk and Elektra Natchios and the Blacksmith and all those other sons of bitches that brought him and Red here.

The fibres split around the blades, revealing swaths of bruising up and down Red's arms. Frank makes the final cut at Red's neck and pulls the costume open. "What's the damage?" Maggie asks, still working on the sleeve.

"Shoulders are still in place. Collarbone isn't broken neither," Frank says. "Blood on his chest. He's cut open. Left side."

"We have to get this suit off him."  
Frank couldn't agree more. God damn costume. He heads for Red's ankle, stripping off the boot, the sock. He hooks the bolt cutters under the cuff of the armour and slams them shut, and for a brief moment, familiarity grips him. His brain goes off with a flashbulb feeling that he's been here before.

His hands work without his thinking about it. They get the bolt cutters up to Red's thigh then pause for a break. Maggie asks him what he's doing, and Frank's only response it to flip open that armour on the leg. He wraps a hand around Red's left calf, his fingers searching, searching, finally settling on a horizontal strip of scar tissue on the back of the limb. His thumb lays itself into the vertical surgical scar on the side.

"What?" Maggie asks again.

Frank withdraws. He picks up the bolt cutters from where he's lain them next to Red. Chills crawl up the back of his neck. He twists, scrubbing a hand to get rid of them. In his periphery, he catches sight of Lantom, arms-crossed in silent judgment from the doorway.

"Leg's not broken," Frank says.

He gets back to cutting, up the thigh, across the chest, intercepting with the incision Maggie's made. "Get him-" Frank starts to say, but she's got it, tearing the suit away from Red's skin. Blood bursts out of the incisions they've made as if they've cut off the kid's own skin.

Maggie leaves the room. "We need bandages," she tells Lantom on her way past.

Frank takes over, bundling the blanket in his hand and pressing it into Red's side. The laceration is long, ugly. Born of blunt force trauma. "We need stitches," he tells Maggie. Then, to himself, "Shit, he needs more than stitches."

"I already suggested taking him to a hospital," Maggie notes.

"Do you know a doctor?" Lantom asks.

"I'll find one," Frank replies.

Maggie sweeps back into the room, placing her armload of supplies on the foot of the bed: bandages and gauze, ice packs. The only thing she holds onto is a narrow metal pan and, unbelievably, a threaded needle. "Get the rest of his suit off."  
Frank holds out a hand for the needle. "Give it here."

"Move."

"You know what you're doing with that?"

"Plenty of practice around here."

"Plenty of practice on him, when he was a boy," Lantom adds.

Frank doesn't like this – any of it – but he is making faster work of the suit than she is, so he moves out of the way. Sister sits her ass down on the side of the bed and gets working. Her first few stitches look fine enough that Frank can get back to cutting. He goes to the opposite ankle this time and starts up towards Red's chest.

He feels the swelling grip the blade at Red's hip. The skin balloons wherever the fabric gives way. "Shit."

"What?" Lantom asks.

"Hip might be broken," Frank replies.

Maggie doesn't even look at the injury. "It's a sprain."

"How the hell do you know?" Frank demands.

"It doesn't matter what I know. It matters what we can treat. We can't do anything for a broken hip. But a sprain, that we can work with." She tosses her head in the direction of the cold packs she's left at the end of the bed. "Treat it like a sprain. Maybe that's all it is."

Frank tears through the rest of the costume with that in mind. Treat it like a sprain, treat it like a sprain. Fucking building crushes the kid, and he's supposed to pretend that it's only a sprain. He tosses the bolt cutters onto the next bed. He peels open the remaining flaps of the suit. Maggie pauses in her suturing, summoning Lantom over with a glance, and though Frank is looking to chew them both out for something, they're both so fucking dependable, both doing exactly what needs to be done. Lantom lifts Red and holds him, Maggie puts pressure on the wound, and Frank drags the remnants of the suit out from under the kid's limp body. He tosses the costume onto the floor and goes back to do more, but Lantom and Maggie already have it covered. Red's returned to the bed. Stitches are closing up his side. Ice packs are resting on his hip, under his back.

A shake builds inside Frank's leg. He steps back, trying to force it out with weight, with tension, and that works for a second or two, but very quickly the spins come back to him. His heart punches against his sternum with every beat. Frank puts a hand over it, willing himself to slow down, get a grip on himself. Kid's getting stabilized, but they'll need supplies to keep him that way. Elektra's out there too: underground or not, alive or dead. Doesn't sound like Maggie's keen on boarders in the orphanage who aren't Jack Murdock's kid, so he needs to find a base and find it fast, get back to doing what he does best.

He watches the last of the stitches go in, watches as Lantom gets the kid lifted again so Maggie can wind his chest up with bandages. Red's head falls back and hangs there. Lantom catches it, sure, but the sight stays with Frank. That vacancy in Red's expression, the bloody shell of him. Shit, he wasn't wearing his helmet when the building came down. No telling what the hell's happened to his head. No telling what's left of Matt Murdock or the Devil or anyone else in there.

Priorities shuffle around in Frank's head. Supplies first, but then it's her. It's all her. Red's God damn zombie ex-. Underground or not, alive or dead, Frank is hunting her ass down, and he doesn't care how much of the city he has to take apart in order to do it.

Maggie and Lantom get Red lying back down. They pop another cold pack on the left side of his face, over his swollen eye, and then they retreat, leaving him, pale and bloody and seemingly held together by bandages. Frank doesn't dare look the image head-on. He's got other shit to deal with, so much so that he doesn't notice Maggie standing next to him wearing clean gloves, a new suture pack in her hands, until she's reaching for his busted nose.

Frank sidesteps around her. "I have to go." He finally hazards a glance at Red. "He'll need fluids, anti-inflammatories, pain meds…"

"I'm not a doctor," Maggie says, "And this isn't a hospital.

"All the more reason to have them."

"I'm already harbouring a fugitive. I won't be party to larceny."

"You treated him when he was a kid, yeah?" Frank asks. "How much of a pain in the ass was he then? Because he is one now. A big one."

"He isn't much of anything right now."

"Give him time!" Frank says, a little more forcefully than he means. So much so that his vision grays out at the edges. His hand flies up to his scalp and finds that wound, the long one, tacky with coagulation and white hot. "He's gonna come back, start pushing that hip, his back, his ribs, his head. Bed's not going to hold him; this building ain't gonna hold him."

Maggie's lips purse even tighter, and she wants to say it. Frank double-dog dares her to say it to his face. But she doesn't. She settles her expression into a stack of flat, resigned lines. "Still Matthew Murdock, then."

"Yeah," Frank says, his eyes flitting to the form on the bed. "Still Murdock."

She heaves a sigh, exhausted with the thought. "At least let me stitch that wound on your head."

"It's stopped bleeding."

"Your nose could use some attention too," Maggie adds.

Frank's turn to sigh. "I'm fine."

"Are your fingers broken?"

"You said you weren't a doctor."

"Several times. Why start listening to me now?"

The old man's no help. He stands over by the far door, hands in the pockets of his jacket, his shoulders up in an almost imperceptible shrug. Frank tries to look away, but his eyes go back to Red's banged-up legs, the glossy sheen of inflammation grating against Frank's retinas. "Fine." He sits down on the bed.

Maggie grabs his nose; Frank yells. A flick of her wrist later and the break sets, blotting out his vision with white heat as fresh blood looses itself from his sinuses and drains into his lap.

Frank catches the flow in his hand. "Jesus-"

'Language, Frank," she says.

"CHRIST," he adds, louder this time. A wad of tissues appear, seemingly from nowhere. Maggie holds onto them long enough for him to take them before she circles around to the cut on his head. "This how you deal with the kids, Sister?"

"The unruly ones, yes," she replies. Her fingers probe the wound before the needle asserts itself. Frank holds himself steady in his seat, pressing his nose harder into his hand as a clutch for balance. "Matt Murdock, certainly."

Frank rolls his eyes. Yeah, why is he not surprised.

Maggie tugs at the thread a few times, less in an effort to close the wound, it seems, than to test Frank's nerves. "You seem to know a lot about tending to Matthew. How did that happen?"

"This isn't the first time he's had a building fall on him," Frank says. The stupid leg, the one Frank thought would never heal, now the one limb on the kid's body Frank isn't worried about. "He should be dead. Should be dead a hundred times over."

"A miracle he survived."

"Nah." Frank makes the mistake of shaking his head. He hears Maggie's sharp sigh, can imagine her so clearly casting a look skyward for the strength to deal with him. "Don't go turning this into an act of God, Sister. Don't you neither, Father."

"I hope you realize the irony in what you're telling us not to do," Lantom says.

"You know who we're talking about. You both do. Don't try and tell me it was God keeping his heart beating, dragging his ass out from under that collapsed building. This wasn't some miracle. This was the kid. The God damn Devil." Maggie tugs her next stitch tight. Frank glares at her. "Would you stop?"

"Enough with the blasphemy."

"Ain't blasphemy: it's the truth. God wasn't what got the kid out. If anything, God's what brought that building down."

Maggie stabs the needle into his scalp hard, and it's the best Frank's felt all night, feeling her wrath and knowing there's not a damn thing she can do about it.

"You don't think he had help at all?" Lantom asks. "Reports say there was a woman with him when the building went down."

"There wasn't anybody else," Frank says, "Not tonight."

"Are you sure about that?"

The beach feels like a lifetime ago already, but, "Yeah, I'm sure. Kid came crawling out of the cistern by himself."

"Would she have shown herself?" Maggie asks. Her ministrations have gotten gentler since Lantom interceded, for which Frank is grateful. He's got a growing number of stars in his eyes.

"She wouldn't've just let him go," he says, "Least of all with me."

"Maybe she wasn't able to stop you."

Frank goes to shake his head again, but he stops himself. "No, she's like the kid. It'll take more than a collapsed building to put her down. If she was there, I would've known about it." Right? He didn't hear a damn thing on that beach except for the kid snaking his way through the sand. He couldn't hear a damn thing more than that. He only had ears for the kid. "I would have known about it."

"Could she have already escaped?" Lantom asks.

"Not without him," Frank says. "She wouldn't leave him."

The silence of the room is striking. Frank's ears ring, his heartbeat pounding inside his skull from the force of his voice, from the sudden, overwhelming thought that _everybody always leaves Matthew_.

Maggie snips the thread on his scalp, releasing him, and he can't get out of the room fast enough.

Lantom exits out of the far door. "Frank."

"I'm going." But Frank realizes it's the wrong direction. The darkness of the hallway swirls around him, a perfect cushion for his aching head. He turns back towards the light, to the shadowy figures of Maggie in the doorway of the infirmary, to Lantom further ahead, each one blocking his exits.

"I'll be back," Frank says. He needs to get stuff for the kid: saline, meds, dressings. A doctor. The last one's lying dead on Red's living room floor.

He stops, the strength in his legs fading. His blood running cold and hot in his veins, arms shaking at his sides. Doc's not dead; well, she is, but she's been dead a while. Closest they've got to a Doc now is a nun doing her best to look disappointed as Frank tries to get himself back in gear.

His heart won't take it. Any more adrenaline and he'll go into arrest, and he has no doubt Sister will bring every ambulance to haul his vigilante-ass away to Metro General while the Devil of Hell's Kitchen convalesces in her care.

"You a coffee-drinker, Frank?"

The question doesn't make sense for so many reasons, and Frank lets the priest know it. "What'd you say?"

"The church has this latte machine."

Maggie lets out a scoff. God, but she has heard about this latte machine. She goes back into the room with Murdock muttering under her breath.

"No time for a latte, Father," Frank says, trying his feet at walking again. He comes to a halt just shy of the old man, when his legs almost give out.

"Jesus," Frank says, his head spinning.

"Blasphemy," Maggie reminds him.

He needs to get the fuck out of here. He half-drags himself on the wall, passing Lantom, and ends up with a priest at his heels as he heads down the stairs.

"I know what you're capable of, Frank. But driving? Robbing a hospital?"

"Don't have a choice," Frank says. He makes it down a flight of stairs without tripping and lets the inertia carry him down the next one. "We both know this isn't over. I said I don't have time? It's him. Red. _Murdock._ He's the one who doesn't have time."

"Maggie can manage him for a couple of hours."

"Jesus, what the hell is the matter with you? Both of you! You're acting like he fell and scraped his knee."

"You brought him here," Lantom notes.

"Because he told me to!" Frank snaps. "St. Matthew's. Father Lantom. He wanted to be at the church, so I brought him to the church!" The stairwell is at once sweltering and freezing. Frank can't quite seem to catch his breath. He puts his voice low to conserve his strength. "I'm grateful for what you've done tonight, Father, but that doesn't mean I am going to stand by and watch you two try to pray him better. It's no miracle that he's made it this far, and it's not gonna be a miracle he makes it further."

"I'm not disagreeing with you."

"Then I'm going." He takes the stairs two at a time, but Lantom isn't following anymore. The old man's standing there even as Frank charges through the door and back out the way he came.

The car is waiting. Frank fumbles at the handle and collapses behind the wheel. He puts the key in the ignition, gets the engine going as fast if not faster than his heart. There's a patter of gray around his vision that he's trying to ignore. Pain and heaviness that he can't seem to get back. He puts the car in drive and circles around the empty lot, his eyes catching the light on the orphanage's third floor. Maggie's silhouette stands at the window, watching him from her place at Red's bedside.

He puts a foot on the brake. The ground in front of him churns. Damn it, he doesn't have time for this, doesn't have time to take a break. Supply run comes first. Stabilizing the kid comes first. Completing the mission, that's first.

Frank slams his foot on the gas and drives off.

* * *

Happy Reading!


	4. Familiar

Disclaimer: the characters and concepts in this story are the property of Marvel and their related affiliates. This is an amateur writing effort meant for entertainment purposes only.

Summary: The dust is still settling from Midland Circle when Frank returns to the city.

Sequel to iIt Takes a Village/i. AU.

Author's Notes: Well, it has begun – I thought I would get a point in this chapter that never came, and instead cut the chapter shorter in order to give the next development room to breathe.

So far I have kept to a weekly update schedule, but there will be a delay with the next chapter because I am traveling this week. I thank you in advance for your patience!

Readers, Dear Readers, you're wonderful. Hope it's nice where you are! Enjoy!

* * *

"It's a danger  
Every shade of us you fade down to keep  
them in the dark on who we are  
(Oh, what you do to me)  
This love is gonna be the death of me."

~Agnes Obel, "Familiar"

* * *

Chapter Three

Daylight hits Frank hard. His face is on fire. Head's a mess of noise and light. Chest is in pain, wrist is in pain, everything is in pain, and there Father goes, pushing at him, making everything worse.

He sits up, infirmary swimming into focus around him. White walls, wooden floors, Red. Fucking kid lying out on the next bed over, injuries on full display in the morning light. He's wearing sweats now, and there's an IV plugged into his arm, vials on the table, but he looks the same kind of dead he did last night. Maybe a little worse now that the swelling's had a chance to build.

"What time is it?" Frank asks.

"Little after 7."

Frank doesn't know what time he got back. Barely remembers coming back. Definitely doesn't remember passing out. Won't Sister Maggie be thrilled. Already has one convalescent, and Frank's gone and made it two.

Father hands him a cup of coffee. Frank takes it, holding it between his hands. The mangled one has been redressed: new splints for the fingers, good support for his wrist. "Sister Maggie couldn't move you, so she tended to your wounds in what I assume was her version of retaliation."

"Brutal," Frank deadpans.

"Feel guilty?"

"No."

"Give it time."

The smell of coffee overwhelms Frank's irritation. He didn't mean to stay. Shit to do out there, places to be. Kid's not going anywhere quick, and if the Sister's as good as she seems to be, switching out bags of saline and administering injections ain't gonna be a problem. Still, Frank's wrist seethes under the bandages, his whole body aches. His heart aches. He lets himself take root, sipping at the coffee.

He makes a face, almost spits it out. Father doesn't react, merely settles himself in the chair on the far side of Red's bed. "Not a decaf drinker."

"'m a coffee drinker. Decaf isn't coffee."

"Figured a man who spent the past twenty-four hours the way you did should probably stick to decaf."

"Been through worse," Frank says, not in the mood.

Lantom concedes, letting him have the quiet, thank Christ. When he comes back it's with, "News reports are saying another prisoner remains in critical condition." Frank doesn't give the old man anything, not until Lantom relays his suspicions. "Wilson Fisk?"

Frank nods. Can't help himself: it's good news. Critical condition means Wilson isn't going anything. Also, the affirmation makes the old man quiet again, leaving Frank alone with his thoughts and the sight of Red.

At least for a little while.

"Critical condition," Lantom muses, "Is that what they're calling 'dead' nowadays?"

Frank forces himself to take another sip of decaf. It goes down easier than Lantom's prodding. Red's presence doesn't help matters neither. Could be listening, the kid. Could be lingering there in subspace, smug as ever, hearing how Wilson Fisk is still alive.

That he doesn't look it barely registers for Frank. Give it time. Kid's gonna come back. Better enjoy it now, the silence and the stillness, before Red starts in with his moral bullshit all over again. Get Mother Superior and Father Lantom to back him up in the debate.

The old man's opening his mouth to speak again; Frank beats him to the punch. "You disappointed, huh? Wish I'd finished the job?" _So do I_. He wraps a hand around the side of his head, stitches scratching against his palm, his scalp stinging. Eventually gives up on the action to hunker down over his knees, square his shoulders, brace himself for the priest's next blow. "I did what I had to do. Guards and inmates got the jump on me; threw me into the hole. Kid wasn't gonna get found. And if he did, the city was gonna ship him off to Super Max the second they could."

"It's important to you that Matthew stay out of prison."

Frank finishes the coffee. He puts the mug on the table amidst the vials. "Important to you too. To Sister. Otherwise he wouldn't be here."

"I'm not judging."

"Then what are you doing? What are you getting at?" Frank waits but not very long. "You do what you do, Father. I do what I do."

Lantom barely bristles at the tone. "Wilson Fisk in critical condition is not what you do." When Frank objects: "Going to prison is not what you do."

Frank stares the old man down: "What do you think I did in prison? You think I was sitting in a cell thinking about putting Wilson Fisk in critical condition? News doesn't know everything, Father."

"No," Lantom says, "It doesn't." But, shit, he sure as hell does, and he's got the look about him to prove it. Can't say any of it without breaking his vows, of course, but that isn't going to stop him from leading the conversation places Frank doesn't want to go. He's gonna keep asking his God damn questions and every answer Frank gives will be found wanting and Red is gonna be there for all of it. Kid's never going to let him forget it neither, not after he wakes up.

If he wakes up.

Christ. _If_. The fucking _if _wasn't really there last night, and now it's rattling around Frank's skull like a game of pinball.

"Maggie's prepared to keep him here until he's able," Lantom says. "He's in good hands. Nobody would think to look for the Devil of Hell's Kitchen here."

"What about Murdock?" Frank asks. "People are going to be looking for him."

"Nobody's come so far."

"They don't know where to look."

"Or they don't think looking will do any good."

Frank isn't sure which of those makes more sense: with Karen it's definitely the former, but Nelson could go either way. Doesn't present any immediate problems though, not if they're as invested in keeping Red out of prison as Maggie and Father seem to be.

Road to hell is paved with good intentions, though. Get Karen creeping around asking questions, the weight of the paper behind her, or Nelson banging at the door with his fancy law firm, they got problems.

"You keep 'em in the dark, they come here," Frank says.

Lantom nods, sighing. "At least until Matthew wakes up."

At that, Frank rises. His coat hangs from a hook on the wall. He gets it on, testing the mobility of his shoulders, his chest. Hurts but he'll live. He casts one last look at Red on his way out the door. As if on cue, Red's hand twitches.

Frank stops. He waits so long that it must be a trick of the light, but then it happens again. The fingers twitch then relax, twitch then relax, like Red's coming around.

Lantom sees it too. He takes hold of Red's other hand. "Matthew," he says.

Frank puts his hand on Red's wrist, getting a read on the pulse. Heartbeat's picking up. The tendons get taut, muscles activate. "Come on," Frank urges. "Come on, Red. Come on…"

"Matthew, can you hear us?"

Red's left eyelid twitches, his eyes darting around in his skull. Frank tightens his grip, gives a little tug, anything to break Red through his shell. The motion looses a breath from Red's throat, what could be a groan if Red had voice to speak of. His tongue darts against the back of his lips, clacking inside his mouth.

"Red? Red!" Frank tries another tug, stopping only when Lantom's hand hits his shoulder. The old man leans over Matthew's mouth, listening hard to what could be those last rites Frank keeps expecting to happen.

Lantom eases back into his seat without saying a word though. He pats Red's hand, reassuring him, and slowly, Red sinks back down into the deep.

"What is it?" Frank demands.

"Elektra," Lantom says. "He was saying 'Elektra.' Asking for her."

Frank nods, releasing Red's wrist as he retreats onto the bed. His thoughts streamline away from Red, from that hope that he's coming around, from that feeling that he might not, from the knowledge that _he's sharper than this_. Sharp enough to know who's in the room and who's not. Frank gets rid of all that. He gets back to what needs doing. Elektra was there when Midland Circle went down. No way she died when the kid survived.

"Are you going to find her?" Lantom asks.

"Yes."

"What happens when you do?"

Frank doesn't answer. Truthfully, he can't say, can't put that shit into words. Whatever happens between him and Elektra will happen, not get talked about or analyzed or cross-examined.

Lantom sighs into the silence between them. He doesn't need to be told. "She's survived being stabbed by ninjas and having a building fall on her. I can't imagine what more you could do."

"She brought him into this," Frank says.

"Maybe," Lantom allows, "But I think we both know Matthew better than that."

God damn it, they do. Frank shakes his head in dismay. "He survived, she survived. I found him; I'll find her. Chances are-" he reaches for his head, then remembers the stitches and stops himself. "Chances are she'll find him."

"And the children?" Lantom asks. "The Sisters? What about them?"

Frank shakes his head. "No, she wouldn't. Not with…" he feels that phantom thrum of Red's pulse against his fingers and tries to put his head back to Elektra. "Not with him."

Father sighs heavily, the weight of Matthew Murdock finally registering, it seems. Frank can't blame the old man: kid doesn't look like much, especially now, but he's got the world on his shoulders and all of hell inside him and the worst of people gunning for him. Takes a hell of a lot to carry the Devil.

"I'll be around," Frank says.

The old man scoffs. "That supposed to reassure me?"

"I ain't gonna let anything happen to the kids, the Sisters-"

"Him," Lantom adds.

The word knocks the air out of Frank's chest. They've been here before, making deals for Red, and though it's easier now, that only makes it more disappointing for Frank. What the hell is he doing here? Living in Red's world of hopes and prayers and fucking Santa Claus nearly killed him once, and he's giving it all a chance to do it again.

"Yeah," Frank says, "Him." Whatever the hell that means.

Lantom leans back in his chair. "My original terms and conditions still stand."

"Oh, for fuck's-"

"Language."

Frank glares. It's gonna be like that, huh? "I gave you my word that nothing will happen to this place."

"You did. And I'm grateful. Matthew will be, too, I expect, when he wakes up."

Jesus Christ, he doesn't look smug, but the old man is fucking proud of himself, settled there in his seat at the kid's bedside. Frank doesn't say anything more. He marches out of the room.

Sister's walking up in the hallway. Fuck. Frank tucks his hands into his pockets, and his jacket goes and pulls on his re-dressed wrist and fingers, and to hell with this place. It's no wonder Red's such a self-righteous little shit when this is what raised him.

"Good morning," Maggie says. She's got a garbage bag in one hand, crinkling at her side. "Sleep well?"

Frank isn't going to give her that. He isn't giving her anything else. "He's all set-up for now."

"You were quite the teacher last night."

So he did make himself useful before he passed the hell out. Thank Christ. "I'll come back around in a bit, restock."

"And if the IV port gets infected, if he has a poor reaction to antibiotics-"

"Yeah, I'll be back for that too."

Maggie does not let him past. "How will you know? I can't have you lingering here, regardless of what Paul says about you. One nosy neighbour, one attentive passerby, and I'll have the NYPD at the door, the FBI. All on the hunt for Frank Castle."

She says the last bit quietly, eyes averted. Embarrassed, probably, that she didn't notice it before, but also worried. Walls have ears in St. Agnes. Christ, Red really did grow up here, didn't he? Probably made Maggie's life a holy terror.

Frank lowers his head slightly. It doesn't help. The cross on the wall glares at him. Got Maggie in front of him, a statue of the virgin in Red's room staring through the windows, Lantom in his periphery ready to join the conversation, and Red looming like the Devil on his shoulder.

He tilts his head toward Red's room, having no more time for this shit. "You put the statue in the window, I'll be here. Won't nobody see me come in or out. You have my word."

"Word of the Punisher," Maggie says under her breath, stepping out of his way.

He doesn't let her go so easily. "And what have you got? You're here busting my ass about bringing the cops here, but if it wasn't for me, you'd've put him back together with God damn band-aids."

She steps up to him, her face directly in front of his. "I'm here protecting my children, who have been put at risk, who are being made party to lawlessness. Surely even someone like you can respect that, Mr. Castle."

"I do."

"Good." Maggie shoves the garbage bag she's carrying into his chest, her tiny knuckles knocking against the broken ribs that she had to be aiming for. "Then go. And take this with you."

Frank does as she says.

The car isn't in the back lot. Frank wracks his brain trying to remember, eventually discovering it a couple blocks away, surrounded by cops. He puts some distance between himself and St. Agnes after that. Not that the boys in blue will have much luck tracking him with the car anyway, but Frank needs some space to clear his head, not to mention ditch whatever the hell Maggie gave him. Probably dressings, other incriminating evidence.

He doesn't expect it. Doesn't know why – what the fuck else is it gonna be? – but it still gives Frank pause to open the bag and see Red's armour inside. Blood-stained, dirt-coated, shorn. Frank wraps up back up in the garbage bag as soon as he lays eyes on it, and he doesn't look at it again until he's found an empty building, concrete floored, empty oil drums and bins scattered around the edges.

Frank gets a fire going. He drops the suit into the drum once the flames get hot. The suit resists at first. The blaze starts caving, unable to muster the strength against the Devil, but eventually, the fringed edges start to smolder. The cuts give a path for the fire, and soon the red of the suit is charring to black, crumbling away into nothing, like it was never there to begin with. Frank doesn't know how long he stands there staring. All he knows is that he can't look away.

* * *

Happy reading!


	5. Gravity

Disclaimer: the characters and concepts in this story are the property of Marvel and their related affiliates. This is an amateur writing effort meant for entertainment purposes only.

Summary: The dust is still settling from Midland Circle when Frank returns to the city.

Sequel to iIt Takes a Village/i. AU.

Author's Notes:

Enjoy!

* * *

"This is the fate you've carved on me  
Your law of gravity  
This is the fate you've carved on me  
On me."

~Vienna Teng, "Gravity"

* * *

Chapter Four

The statue doesn't move.

Frank can barely contain himself. Sister seems to be more stubborn and self-righteous than the kid. Not the type to ask for help even when she could really fucking use it. Only thing that keeps Frank from busting down the door is finding a vantage point on the infirmary window. Building next to the church gives him the view. He puts in time staring through a scope at Red's arm on the bed, pale as the sheets save for the bruises which broaden and deepen over the following days. Nuns take turns sitting at his bedside. Sometimes they read to him, sometimes they read to themselves. Sister Maggie, meanwhile, flits in and out of the room, giving orders and directing care before disappearing again to tend to other children.

Matter of time, Frank thinks, lowering the scope and departing for another couple of hours. Work to do, and he does it, igniting a network that sets him up for what's to come. He returns at night to find that's still the case: matter of time. Looking up from street level, the windows are still empty. Heading for the rooftops doesn't reveal anything. Red's arm is lying there on the bed. Hasn't moved, hasn't twitched, hasn't anything. The chair by his bedside is strangely empty.

Frank shifts his focus. He zooms-in to check the rise and fall of Red's chest, the tube in his forearm, before there he goes again, looking at that empty chair. Guess the kid doesn't need a babysitter while he's just lying there, but knowing Red, he'll be needing supervision before long. What's Sister going to do then?

The thought gives Frank reason to pause. He lowers the scope, stretches his neck, takes in the rest of the city. His eyes are adjusting to freedom, to the harsh interplay of light and shadow, of unceasing motion. Super Max was a city that never sleeps too, but the threats were known, trackable. Out here, Frank's got phantoms breathing down his neck. The girl's out there. Cops are on the hunt. Damn shadows in the orphanage could be kids or could be sisters or could be the remnants of the immortal ninja army. Here he is with a scope, no gun – like an _asshole_ – playing peek-a-boo because Mother Superior doesn't know the kid well enough to have him watched at all God damn times.

Figures that he finds Red moving. It fucking figures. The empty chair is an invitation. Red's hand is clawing, gripping at the blanket, then raises a couple inches, reaching. Frank scans the room, waiting for the missing Sister to return, but no one comes. Red's motions quicken. He fumbles, gripping the side of the mattress; he pushes, inching slightly up on the bed. Then he collapses and starts the whole cycle over again.

Frank tears the scope away from his face. He gets to his feet and starts off the roof, stopping only when a shadow appears at the infirmary window. Maggie's face catches the dim light from the street below, but Frank can't make out much more than the moment of her lips without looking through the scope again.

She wraps a hand around Red's, puts the other where Frank can't see, by the kid's face maybe. Her mouth stops moving. She looms in harsh silence to Frank's eyes, gripping Red, holding him steady, holding _Frank_ steady, only loosening her grasp when Red settles back into stillness.

At first, Frank thinks she might leave. Maggie certainly seems about to, but she eases herself into the chair at Red's bedside. Only then does Frank notice the hand she hasn't moved from the kid's, the hand that stays till dawn creeps through the window and another sister arrives.

Whatever Maggie says is lost to Frank, but it gets the other sister explaining herself, apologizing, a sad expression on her face as she replaces Maggie at Red's side. "Feelin' guilty?" Frank remembers Father asking. Answer's still no, but hell if Maggie or her fellow sister feel the same way.

He makes a pass of Karen's place. Doesn't stop or nothing. Just makes sure it's still standing and then keeps walking.

Nelson's apartment is different. Frank slips through a service door, rides the elevator up to the suite, picks the lock to let himself inside long enough to bug the place. Bit of a wild card, Nelson. Not much for him to say to cops: seems like the only thing anyone knows is that the Devil of Hell's Kitchen went down with Midland Circle. But last time Murdock went missing, Nelson was having the boys in blue do drive-bys of the kid's neighbourhood. Keeping an ear on him is a good idea.

Last place Frank goes is Red's apartment. The rooftop door is unlocked. Frank opens it slightly, listening, but the place is empty. Daytime fills every room, warming the space in such a way that it's unrecognizable from the last time Frank was there. He's used to darkness with Red. Used to dust and death. Apartment looks lived-in again, occupied. Casefiles are stacked on the table next to a laptop. Dishes for more than one setting are clean in the rack by the sink. Mail's sorted on the counter. The couch is new, with darker upholstery this time. Better for hiding bloodstains.

Frank expects her to be there. Keeps feeling her behind him, making the hairs on the back of his neck stick up. Making his hand hover the sidepiece he's got. Red would know. He'd hear that heartbeat of hers, smell her, give Frank a head's up, but there's no Red. No Elektra neither. Not holding court in the armchair or cozied up in the bed or even hiding, waiting to burst out stabbing like the hellion she is.

He finds the gym bag in the closet waiting for him. Frank reaches for it, catches himself. Sunlight brings him back to the present, reminds him this isn't before. Can't take anything this time. Can't risk Nelson or Karen or anybody figuring Murdock's alive. Sisters seem to be keeping him clothed well enough with the stuff they got on-hand.

He puts the closet back the way he found it and turns to go. Sunlight lights the silk sheen of the bed, stopping Frank dead in his tracks. He forgot about the stupid sheets. Devil of Hell's Kitchen's precious skin gets chafed by anything less. Gonna get bedsores from whatever they have at the orphanage.

Frank has the sheet off the bed and bundled under one arm without another thought. He arranges the blanket the way he found it, goes for the pillows and stops again. Kid's got pyjamas shoved at the head of his bed: some sweats, a hoodie. _The _hoodie. Too big for him by half, at least in Frank's mind, but worn recently if its location is any indication.

He should leave the damn thing. Bad enough he's got the sheet. But hell if he's not taking both with him to the roof. It's not like anybody will know to miss it. Besides, it's his hoodie. Kid was just holding onto it for him while he was in Super Max.

The door doesn't quite latch behind him. Frank turns and gives it a push, and there it is again, that prickling on the back of his neck. That feeling of being stalked. He checks the top of the roof access – nothing. Whips around with his gun drawn – he's alone. He chases the ghost of her around to the sight of all the other empty rooftops around him. The sunny streets below filled with crowds she might have jumped into, alleys where she might be hiding, vehicles she might be driving.

And for what? To watch him sweat? Fuck, Frank curses himself out. He's being an idiot, not thinking clearly, running around this God damn city, trying to put pieces together that don't fit and find people that don't want to be found and what the hell does it matter, he finds her? What the hell is she gonna do besides sit in that chair and hold Red's hand as the whole orphanage comes down around them because that's what things do, they come crashing down. Especially where Red's concerned.

Maybe she is dead. She better be dead. And then, the crux of it, the actual fucking problem amidst this shitshow, that if she isn't, she better hope Frank doesn't find her.

Frank leaves it at that.

* * *

No statue.

Daylight makes the orphanage a busy place. Can't risk being spotted there, even with his beard coming in, so Frank goes to St. Matthew's. A scant number of parishioners dot the pews. Father's nowhere to be seen. Frank searches, eventually finding the old man hidden away by the confessionals.

Makings of a smile on Father's face when he says, "Confession doesn't start till 3, but I could make an exception if you're interested."

"Not," Frank replies.

Lantom shrugs. "Can't blame a priest for trying."

"Yes, I can."

The old man gives an exasperate half-roll of his eyes. He lowers his voice almost to a whisper. "There's been no change." Then, "As I'm sure you're aware."

Frank doesn't give Father a damn thing more than a nod. He draws the bundle of fabric from under his arm and passes it off. "Gonna have to restock soon, Sister wants me there or not."

"I'll talk to Maggie."

Another nod, and Frank leaves it at that, passing back into the sanctuary. He keeps his head down but his eyes tracking through the parishioners: the blonde woman in the front row, the couple lighting candles, the old man in sunglasses near the back. Frank leaves, not knowing what's more stupid: that she's not there, or that he's still thinking she will be.

* * *

Nighttime finds him back on the rooftop. Nowhere else to be: no leads on Elektra, and Red will need a supply run soon regardless of what Mother Superior thinks. Frank occupies himself by listening in on Nelson's apartment. Karen's there. Her sigh comes through loud and clear in his earpiece, followed by the crisp pop of beers opening.

They come to the subject of Murdock quick enough. Nelson keeps trying to dodge, but Karen doggedly brings him back to it. He finally says, in a defeated mumble, "Could take them months to dig out Midland Circle."

Karen jumps, armed and at the ready with an answer. "Well, maybe they won't have to. Maybe he wasn't even down there."

"We both know he was down there."

"That doesn't mean he still is! He could have gotten out!"

"Then where is he? If he got out, why hasn't he shown up yet?"

"I don't know."

"So he's stuck in a tunnel somewhere or lost or –"

"Why is this so hard for you?" Karen snaps. "Why is it so hard for you to believe that he is okay? That he is coming back?"

Nelson's beer hits the countertop like a gavel. "It isn't! That's the problem! You don't think I haven't thought of all this? Every day that they don't find a body is one more day that I go thinking he is just going to turn up."

"He is, Foggy."

"Is he? I don't know that. _We _don't know that."

"I know."

But she doesn't. Not really. Frank hears it through his earpiece, that breathless desperation of hers. She wants to know that far more than she actually does.

Nelson doesn't call her on it, not directly. "We knew one day that we would lose him to this."

"No, no, you can't start thinking like that," Karen says.

"I can't keep thinking the way that I am! The way that you are! I keep thinking about him underground, and it's worse when he's not dead, because he's lost. He's dying, slowly and alone. He's dying or…" He chokes on his next breath.

"Take a drink, Nelson," Frank mutters.

Nelson doesn't. He's crying. "He could be dying down there for _days_."

Karen puts her beer down, and she must go to him, because her voice goes soft and quiet, her words get all sweet and hopeful, and Frank takes out his earpiece. He can't hear it. He's got eyes on the kid, alive, and he can't listen to what she's saying, and that should say a whole lot more than it does but Frank won't let it. He goes back to watching Red's hand, the bloody cuts and bruises from where the building hit, from where he crawled out. Wonder what that looked like to him, the darkness, when it was crushing him under its weight.

Sister in the chair looks up from her book, hearing something. Frank orders her not to go under his breath, but she does, disappearing into the darkness. He sits up straighter in his perch, counting the seconds of her absence, minding that Red's hand doesn't move on the bed. He gives her a minute. One minute. Then he doesn't give a shit what she or Sister Maggie have to say; he's going in.

A figure returns to the doorway. Shadows make it difficult to see, but it doesn't take long for Frank to figure out it isn't one of the sisters. Ain't Lantom neither. No, this one isn't affiliated with the church. They're wearing ill-fitting clothes, the sorts of things they'd steal off a clothesline if they just crawled out from under a crater in the earth.

Frank waits for a glimpse of her face, her hair, anything to confirm, but the person in Red's room knows just how to stand so the light won't hit them. They know exactly where to be so Frank can't make them out. He strains to see them through the scope, able to make out only the smallest details: that they're human, that they've avoided detection, that they're just _standing there_.

A hand appears in front of the window. Light-stained, overexposed. Frank lowers the scope. He creeps to his exit, making his way down the building to the church parking lot. He glances quickly up at the window to see the figure is still there before making his way through the back door of the orphanage.

He's up the stairs, gun in his hand, almost at the infirmary floor, when Maggie catches him. Frank puts a hand to his lips before she can speak before gesturing her to move back. Her lips go into a thin line; her eyes are fire and brimstone. But she does it, disappearing back with her charges as he continues upstairs in silence.

The shadow stretches out from the infirmary, a head and torso very clearly defined along with something else above the shoulder. Frank recognizes the shape from those fucking ninjas: katana. Not really Elektra's weapon of choice, but she's used one before, and pickins for weapons have gotta be slim now that she's broken ranks with her ninja benefactors.

Frank sidles up to the doorway, the shadow fixed on the floor beside him. _One batch, two batch – _and he whips around the corner into the room.

Shadow's gone. Vanished. To be fucking expected. Frank doesn't stop to think: he moves, tracking, before spotting a rush of movement out the far door.

The chase takes him downstairs, away from the kid, the orphans, the sisters, through an entrance into St. Matthew's. Light gets dimmer, more diffuse, through the stained glass and wood. Dust doesn't help. Whole church looks like it's in cinders, and Frank loses track of his target in the gloom.

He hears a click further off and follows. A corridor leads him to a gate, unlocked and ajar, exactly her kind of invitation to a trap. Doesn't help that Frank hears a footstep now, one, a single tap against a concrete floor that shakes up the embers in his head to flames. Swear to God, if she's been hiding here this whole time, right under his nose, right under Red's nose, Frank doesn't care what the fuck he said to the priest.

He presses onward, down a set of stone steps into the basement of the church. The light's even dimmer down here than the sanctuary. A patch of red is visible in the corner from the stained glass windows, but the rest of the space a dusty blue. Pillars obscure what little visibility Frank has, prompting him to use one for cover.

She might be gone, but Frank doubts it. She didn't lead him down here to flee; she brought him down here to fight. "Got a look at your handiwork," Frank says, "You proud of yourself now? Doing that?"

He can't hear a damn thing. He even inches out from behind the pillar, gives her an advantage, before letting himself vanish again. No sign of her in the dark. She's probably skulking up to his position, using those ninja moves like the kid. That in mind, Frank moves into the corner, gives himself a view of the space. Nothing's creeping across the ceiling or flipping out of the walls. Yet.

"Don't keep me waiting, sweetheart," Frank urges her.

Something taps against a far pillar. Frank holds his ground, listening as the sound appears again – _tap_ – this time a few paces to the right. Again, there's a pause, and then _tap, _circling around the room to come closer and closer to him.

Frank turns away from the sound, into the empty space at his left, exactly where the minx doesn't want him looking. Exactly where she would be attacking him if he didn't look. Fucking ninjas.

He ducks just in time for the katana to swing overhead. The resounding crack against the wall above his head is oddly wooden. Frank doesn't have time to think too hard about it. He fires at the shadow's legs, missing thanks to ninja reflexes that propel that shadow out of sight again. Frank thinks they're in for another standoff, but the figure appears suddenly, a blade catching on the side of the gun and knocking it aside, nearly taking Frank's hand with it.

Frank kicks and manages to land a blow for all the good it does. The figure is double-wielding, one sword in each hand, and swings one down into Frank's spine. Wood claps hard against Frank's shoulders. He rolls to get out of the way, narrowly dodging a blow to the head.

The figure is gone by the time he's standing, but Frank isn't kept waiting long. He's knocked again with the wooden sword, slashed with the blade. It's fast enough to be Elektra, certainly ruthless enough, and yet the shape's all wrong, the motions have a kind of crassness. She's dances; this guy, and it is a guy, he's direct, to the point. Out doing exactly what he means to.

Frank is slammed into a pillar, blood draining out of his face, his arms. A blow to his chest tightens the vice-grip around his heart, knocking the air clean out of his lungs. He gasps for breath but never seems to get any. Through the dark, he sees a flash of white where the figure's eyes peer at him from the darkness.

"So you're the one they call the Punisher," the man says. The amusement in his voice is amplified by the chamber. He raises his sword. "Nice to meet you."  
Frank throws himself in the direction of the blade. The fact that it's a misdirection hits him around the same time as the wooden sword, which swings down on him from behind and slams him headfirst into the floor.

* * *

Happy reading!


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